Galadriel's Hair
by Kirunavaara
Summary: When Gimli asks Galadriel for a strand of hair and she says yes, it brings back memories of the time she refused to grant Feanor the same wish. How does she feel about it now, after millenia have passed?


**AN**: None of the characters belong to me. It's all Tolkien's.

Since it's mostly reflections on the past, I decided to put it in the Silmarillion category.

Special thanks goes to Crackers for her encouragement to write this!

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><p><strong>Galadriel's Hair<strong>

Not long after the fellowship has departed, I find myself alone in my garden once more. These days, I spend more time there than in the company of others. Ever since the shadow has started to grow again, the fact that I bear a ring of power has isolated me more and more from my people.

This gap has affected my relationship with Celeborn also. By now, we both know that it will inevitably end in an at least temporary separation. If the Enemy regains The One, my mind will lie bare to him and he will surely destroy me and Lothlórien along with me. If Frodo, against all odds, manages to fulfill his quest, I will diminish and not be able to withstand the Sea's call any longer. I will part for the Undying Lands and Celeborn will remain in Middle Earth.

My fingers gently brush along the rim of the silver basin. It reflects the light of the sun so radiantly; mortal eyes could not stand the sight of it now. I have no desire to consult my mirror right now. It holds no answers anymore, only shadows and a red Eye, ever searching, never sleeping.

A soft wind ruffles my hair.

I smile.

My hair.

Today, the wind takes me back to times long gone and memories not often thought of.

Back in the days of my youth, they used to say that my hair was golden like Laurelin's light, mixed with just a hint of Telperion's silver glow.

In the end, I owe it even the name I am now known of, and that Celeborn first called me by in the woods of Doriath.

Was it this admiration? Was that the thing which fueled my pride until it all but resembled my half- uncle's?

Proud we were, all of us that set out for Middle Earth, and naïve, and bitterly we have paid for our foolishness.

So alone I remain, the last one of that part of my family who has witnessed the light which is older than sun and moon and its destruction, in Middle Earth. Neither of my parents left Aman with us, and my brothers lost their lives in Beleriand. The only one who might be left on this side of the shores now is my cousin of whom they say that he will wander the shores forever, lamenting the evils their oath has caused.

Usually, the uncertainties of the present prevent me from dwelling in the past much.

Today, Gloin's son has changed that with his humble request.

A strand of my hair, that is what he asked me for.

A stand of hair.

The most simple wish to fulfill, or so it seems.

In millennia, I have been asked that question only once before.

Well, thrice, actually, but by the same person.

To say that I was surprised the first time Feanáro sought me out would be an understatement.

He disliked the children of Finwe and his second wife, and his feelings towards their offspring were not much more cordial, if at all. As a result, we would see him only occasionally.

Then one day, he showed up at our doorstep asking for me. I was in the garden, trying to capture my surroundings in a drawing when I heard my mother's voice calling for me. I did not bother to reply for I knew she would find me sooner or later; and as always, she did. When I looked up to greet her, I met Feanáro's eyes instead of the ones I expected. My mother was standing next to him, looking a little uneasy when she told me that he wanted to talk to me. She left us alone, for it was around dinnertime and she needed to check if everything was being prepared the way she wanted it.

I remember that he asked me if I minded him sitting down and that I merely shrugged as an answer, being completely absorbed in what I was trying to do. Instead of being offended by my behavior, he smiled and took the picture from my hands. I expected criticism from my perfectionist half-uncle, but instead he told me that it was not too bad. He was nice that day, nicer than he had ever been with any of us before.

I was neither wise nor experienced at the time (and I do not know if I am really as wise as they say I am now), but I soon began to suspect that there was a reason for this change in behavior. That he wanted something from me.

When he finally spoke of the reason for his coming over, I looked him in the eyes, and I said no.

Had I been truly wise, I might have reacted differently.

To this day, I cannot say exactly why my answer was no. Maybe it really was only my pride's doing, and I did not feel like I owed the half-uncle who had never cared about me before anything.

I thought about it for a long time after he had parted, poorly concealing his anger with polite words.

At first, I thought I was not going to see him for quite a while.

In retrospect, it only proves how little I knew him.

Feanáro did not give up so fast. He came back twice.

Once he met me while I was at the beach, watching the seagulls flying above waves that changed their color ever so slightly, from a deep blue to a lighter one to a turquoise tone, whenever they moved. To this day I do not have any idea how he knew where to find me. He did, however, and he repeated his wish. I refused again.

The third time he came for me was at the celebration of his father's birthday in Tirion. I had left the room to get some air. When I turned around to go back in, I noticed him leaning against the doorframe, watching me. I told him no before he could even ask. Feanáro did not yet give up. He was talking very fast, telling me about the beautiful things he could create if only I gave in. Finally, I had enough of it and tried to walk past him. He wanted to hold me back, but I angrily shook his hands of. Next thing, I was heading inside without looking back.

I suppose that in the end, in those conversations with me, he probably came as close to begging as he ever would.

Yet the more he talked and the more I listened to his words, the more I began to feel quite uneasy in his presence.

Then, when I looked into his eyes, I saw the shadow of doom and darkness lurking beneath the surface, and it frightened me. I did not want to have anything to do with it; never realizing darkness was lying ahead of all of us, and that it was all Morgoth's doing until it was far too late.

Fear and pride do not foster reason.

So I remained firm in my decision.

He was not going to get any of my hair.

Was it this my motivation? Fear and pride? Or was there some underlying motive still that I just cannot grasp?

After thousands of years that have passed since then, I doubt I will ever find a satisfying answer.

This is not to say that I have not often wondered afterwards.

Wondered, what it might have changed.

When the first wave of desperation hit me, I cursed my stubbornness. Had there been no Silmaril if I had given him my hair? For a while, I was almost convinced – until I realized how arrogant it was to believe so. Whatever my meaning in the curse of history, I have never been that important.

Also, assuming so was completely ignoring Feanáro's personality. He was destined to always strive for more. Whatever he might have done with my hair, he still would have been driven to create something more beautiful, more perfect.

Something like the Silmaril. Those jewels, that we have all grown to hate; and yet we are still fascinated by them. And do we not love Earendil, our star of hope? Does the light he gives us not come from a Silmaril?

I sigh.

No, my refusal could not have changed history that much.

But still.

Maybe it would have changed something.

Just anything.

Maybe it would have changed things for our family. Maybe Feanáro would not have resented us so much. Maybe there had at least been no swords drawn in Valinor, not one brother been threatened by the other.

Maybe there had been less mistrust and resentment between us and the sons of Feanáro in Beleriand.

Maybe, maybe…

No one will ever know.

Is that why I was willing to grant Gimli his wish almost immediately? To not fuel any resentments again?

Well, it might be one reason.

But I think what convinced me in the end was his response to my question. What was a dwarf going to do with a strand of my hair?

He said he wanted to keep it and pass it on to his descendants, as a symbol for the friendship of the Wood and the Mountains until the end of days.

I liked the image.

If his vision comes true, then my hair will truly have served a greater purpose than gaining mere admiration.

Still.

Regret and grieve remain in my heart for all that went wrong between the members of my family, for all that we have lost.

Sometimes I doubt that even Aman can heal the wounds we have inflicted on ourselves.


End file.
